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Acolyte of Xathrid
07:27
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Born to hours that walk through a silent nothingness (complete in the implicit emptiness of living), there comes ones sorry stride into oblivion, stalking through fields of grain that wait in soiled sleep. And with them cluck primal tongues of dirt, sated by purpose and fulfillment. They hide with the knowledge that hubris is the ultimate unknowing and toil the earth with their phantom limbs. They toil outside invention or human reckoning, as intrinsic to nature as we are to death.
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Slow moving through winter, each passing moment becomes sustained outside of being. The cold air gathers thoughts I've held at bay and offers them to me in cupped hands, so I drink. I feel each second become lifeless in time, remaining sacred only to me.
They clear my path to an eventual sea that will wake me into death. Ageless trees have enclosed my passage with arched, arthritic arms
and nod their assent.
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